


Somebody More Like You

by iridescentglow



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:10:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People lie, bodies don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody More Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the Summer of Like (Warped Tour '05).

They were in the line for coffee when Gerard noticed the marks on Mikey's neck. A smudged pattern of bruises creating an unsteady arc down from his earlobe and disappearing beneath the collar of his t-shirt. It was a brand—a testament to someone else's mouth suckling at his brother's neck. A hickey. _God_.

"You look like shit," said Gerard. He told himself that it was the lack of caffeine that was making him blunt.

Mikey half-turned, twisting his neck so that he could look at Gerard. "Thanks." He squinted, producing the barest of smiles.

Gerard immediately felt bad, in spite of—_because of_—Mikey's indifference. Mikey didn't look like shit at all; he looked worn, but beautiful. The tiredness softened his features, making him look impossibly fragile.

Still, Gerard couldn't seem to quit. He tugged the hem of Mikey's t-shirt up. He glimpsed teeth marks against the pale skin of his abdomen before Mikey yanked the shirt back into place. Mikey let out a small sigh of exasperation, but he didn't meet Gerard's eye. Gerard hesitated, and then pushed his hands underneath Mikey's t-shirt once more. Gerard felt uneven ridges that might be scratch marks, rough patches that might be carpet burn. He increased the pressure of his fingertips against Mikey's flesh, and he was gratified to hear Mikey's breath catch in his throat as he reawakened a cluster of bruises that Gerard guessed were concentrated on his hips.

Gerard retracted his hands. He felt his own body slacken, and he propped himself up against the counter. He forced himself to act natural—_great turn of phrase, that one_. He glanced around the half-empty coffee house. They'd missed the rush of suited businessmen, and Gerard guessed that most everyone else was still sleeping off hangovers. The line inched along, until it was Gerard and Mikey's turn to be served.

Gerard was about to mumble their order when Mikey spoke up. _Well okay then_, Gerard thought malignantly, _you be big brother—I'm fucking sick of it, anyway_. He chased the irrational anger away and told himself to be proud of this happier, more assertive Mikey.

He glanced at the girl who was serving them: her hair was a shade of black that pretended to be purple when it caught the light; Gerard sensed teenage petulance lacquered with a coat of true _fuck you_ attitude. As her eyes flicked restlessly over the pair of them, he saw her face flood with recognition. _Shit_. Her eyes widened; the attitude falling abruptly away, replaced with childish awe. Gerard felt his headache intensify. He didn't want to have to deal with this. Not now. Not before his coffee. Not when he could still feel PetefuckingWentz all over his baby brother.

"I really love the album," she rushed out, their Americanos cooling and forgotten, "I mean, the first one was good, but I just love the second one. 'Helena' is like _my_ song."

_It's not your fucking song_. Gerard's head pounded. He opened his mouth to reply, honestly not sure what would come out. Then he heard Mikey pipe up.

"Thanks a lot, 'ppreciate it," Mikey said easily. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile. "Here's a ten for the coffees, keep the change."

With a queasy jolt, Gerard recalled the way that Pete spoke to fans. The overabundance of goodwill. Big smiles, showing too many teeth.

Gerard blinked. The girl sailed away, ecstatic. Mikey handed Gerard his coffee and steered him away from the counter.

*

Mikey doesn't know that Gerard has slept with Pete. He uses the words _slept with_, because they feel more peaceful inside his head. But really, it was sex. The most base kind of sex. The kind of sex where desire burns everything else away. He hadn't had that kind of sexual encounter since he got clean. Impulsive. Inexplicable. Regrettable. Definitely not the happy, functional kind of sex his self help tapes seem to indicate that sobriety leads to. _Regrettable_. He rolls the word around in his mouth, and then reluctantly adds a final description to the litany in his head: _Fucking glorious_.

Mikey doesn't know. Gerard thinks that he'll never tell him. Ever. Gerard would rather die than hurt Mikey.

A darker, more insidious part of Gerard concedes that maybe he's just waiting for the right time. The right argument. It will be the ace up his sleeve. The knife straight in Mikey's heart. Because part of Gerard wants to see the way that Mikey's face will crumple around his words.

Sometimes he thinks that he's spent twenty-five years looking for ways to hurt Mikey.

*

 

Gerard was painting when Pete showed up at his hotel room. He'd been so caught up that he hadn't noticed the time slip away. Daylight had faded in the room, replaced by the faint glow of sunset and the creeping promise of night-time. Pete appeared in the doorway, framed into silhouette by light from the hallway. In tight-fitting jeans and an unbuttoned shirt that clung to his chest, he appeared like something that had crawled out from Gerard's canvas. Tainted perfection. Gerard could almost see the contours of Pete's body appear in his painting—flecks of white paint offsetting bottomless pools of shadow. Gerard rubbed his thumb distractedly across the burning horizon, staining his skin with red paint. Then he spoke—

"He's not here."

That should have been Pete's cue to leave. The room belonged to Mikey and Gerard only in the most arbitrary sense. Mikey slept elsewhere on most nights. All that he'd been able to weasel out of Mikey the week before—when their hotel room had been in Portland—was that he'd "crashed" in Pete's room, 'cause he was "really tired" and "kind of out of it". (In the weeks to come, Mikey would grow less defensive—and more ambiguous—adding a small smile when he said he'd been hanging out with Pete and it had just gotten late. Gerard learned to stop asking.)

"What are you up to?" Pete asked complacently. He was still propped against the doorframe, apparently undecided as to whether he wanted to invite himself in.

"What does it look like?" Gerard replied, unable to keep the petulance out of his voice. It figured that Pete Wentz would successfully turn him into a 5th grader.

"I guess Mikey's not around . . ." said Pete.

The lazy ease with which he said Mikey's name made Gerard want to reach out and smack him. "That's what I said, isn't it?"

Pete finally pushed himself out of the doorway and began moving to where Gerard sat painting. Gerard was vaguely aware that he let the door swing shut. The _click_ made the back of Gerard's neck prickle for a single moment.

"It's good," Pete said, looking appraisingly at Gerard's canvas. Gerard saw Pete's eyes flash with dismissiveness—perhaps even boredom. Pete with his _designs_, his new "witty" t-shirts every second day.

"It's not finished," Gerard said in a hard voice.

"There is no finished world . . ." Pete murmured. He sighed a little. He was still staring at the painting. His expression looked soft, thoughtful—even sad. Gerard wondered if he'd misinterpreted his reaction.

Gerard let his paintbrush fall onto the dinner plate he was using in lieu of a palette. The sun had set; the night had crept closer. The room had become shadows upon shadows. The tight darkness made it harder for Gerard to breathe.

Pete was lolling against the wall, his eyes still flickering over the painting. Gerard turned to face him fully, levering himself out of his sitting position. Gerard opened his mouth to say something, but that's when Pete began speaking.

"He has a really nice back." Pete's voice was low and magnetic. "The way his spine curves . . . slightest pressure. He's so skinny, bones everywhere . . . angles. He's got no ass to speak of"—soft laughter—"but that dip at the base of his spine. Likes it when I lick it. Likes it when I lick everywhere." Pete pouted ostentatiously. "You think I have a nice mouth, Gee?" Gerard grunted, unable to cohere his thoughts into speech. Pete continued, "So anyway, one day he's covered in blue—white—hint of green, maybe. Just little smudges. Like maybe you wouldn't notice unless you . . . paid attention." Pete chuckled again, louder—it sounded harsh in the quiet of the room. "Paint. All over his body. How does that even happen?"

Pete paused. He looked Gerard up and down. Gerard was careful to keep his face blank, his posture loose. "I like your painting, Gee," Pete said after a moment. He spoke plainly—almost earnestly. "Really. I do." He reached out, snaking an arm around Gerard's waist.

Gerard allowed Pete to draw him near. His other hand swiped at the back of Gerard's neck—heavy warmth and a vice-like grip as Pete brought their lips together. Gerard's body was relaxed, almost passive. But his skin was humming—sharp spikes of emotion that caused every nerve ending to scream. Pete was kissing him, slowly, lasciviously. Gerard couldn't help but reciprocate. Anger and humiliation roared across the surface of his mind; sudden desire, like the jab of a needle, blotted everything else out.

He was only just aware of Pete whispering, "It'll be our little secret."

**Author's Note:**

> **Note**: _There is no finished World_ is a painting by André Masson. 'Somebody More Like You' is a great, great song by Nickel Creek.


End file.
